Letters to Leonardo Read Free Page B

didn’t want me!
    But what did she say in her card? She “thinks about me every day” – like she misses me. Like none of this was really her choice
.
    How do you make sense of it all?
    And what else haven’t I been told? Is Dave that warped that he just wants to keep me for himself? Heaps of kids in my class live with their mums and spend weekends and holidays with their dads. Why couldn’t we have been like that?
    Dave is false, a con – what you see is
not
what you get. He’s like a picture that’s been painted over. When you scrape off the surface layers you find the real hypocritical, lying Dave. I hate him
.
    And I’m going to make him feel my pain
.
    They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but what about the paintbrush – or the spray can? No pathetic little sketchpads for you. You painted on a grand scale – big and bold. I could paint Dave’s bedroom bright orange – he’d hate that
.
    But no, I’m going to do my artwork where everyone can see. Something massive – a masterpiece
.
    Going to paint something immense like your
Last Supper.
Can’t believe it’s nearly nine metres long. Now that’s some canvas
.
    I think I know just the place for my public exhibition
.
    Matt

    I fall asleep at the laptop with the
Mona Lisa
screen saver watching over me. When I wake up it’s still not light. My computer screen tells me it’s 3.48. I’ve been slumped over with my head on the keyboard.
    My neck aches – feels like it has been stretched between two trees. The crushing feeling in my chest hasn’t gone away, and my legs have been squashed for too long under the computer desk.
    I check my email. Still nothing! I slam my fist down on the keyboard.
    I can’t go back to sleep. There’s too much going on in my head – too much to find out, too much to think about. Too many things boiling away inside me.
    I stand up and stretch to get my legs working again and to loosen the tightness in my neck and shoulders. Then I sit back at the computer to wait for morning.
    At eight in the morning the front door slams as Dave leaves for work. He hasn’t even knocked on my door. Rosenbaum probably told him to leave it alone – pretend we never argued, wait for me to make the first move.
That’s not going to happen
.
    A minute later, my laptop beeps “incoming mail”. Finally, it’s there, in my inbox, something from Kathryn Armain. I sit staring at it – too scared to click “open”. What if she tells me to mind my own business? Or worse?
    My eyes are heavy from not enough sleep. I feel like I want to throw up again.
    “Don’t be such a wimp,” I tell myself. “This is what you’ve been waiting for.”
    I have to focus to make my fingers click on Kathryn Armain’s reply. My stomach churns as I read each word carefully to make sure I get it right.
    To: [email protected]
    From: [email protected]
    Subject: Re: Looking for Zara
    Dear Matt,
    Sorry I can’t give you the information you need.
    I have spoken to a couple of girls from our class, but we lost contact with your mother after high school. Bethany Summers remembers seeing something about her in the paper about ten years ago, but can’t remember what it was about. Could have been her art – she was a fantastic painter.
    Your mother went out with a guy called Scott Reesborough from Ashton High. You might find his details on their website. He could have kept in touch.
    Hope you find her.
    All the best,
    Kathryn Armain

4
    Mum is an artist! Why didn’t Dave ever mention that? Is that why he doesn’t like me doing art?
    She paints! Like me! It makes me feel connected to her – excited, hopeful. But then I realise, I don’t even know where my own mother is. Kathryn’s email has given me nothing. I go from hyped to gutted in a blink. My stomach rumbles to remind me it’s breakfast time, but I’m too worked up for anything solid.
    I go into the lounge room and lie around on the couch, drinking milk straight from the bottle – pity